


The Chess Player

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stud Draqual - William Maltese
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I’m going away for a while,” Draco said... "Anywhere in the world but here”</i>, <b>writcraft</b> writes in her haunting story <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/812444">Collapse Amongst the Dying Stars</a>. This is the story of where Draco went and how he returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chess Player

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Collapse Amongst the Dying Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/812444) by [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft). 



> Thank you so much, **chantefable** , for the last-minute beta.

Draco had never seen the clock. Yet he could not recall one single moment of silence in Azkaban. The ceaseless ticking had reverberated through the cells – a rusty screeching sound. It reminded you not so much of time passing by, towards freedom, but of the life outside rushing along and lost to you, forever.

This place was bigger than his cell had been, but they got the clock right and the acrid metallic scent that had always pervaded the corridors of Azkaban. The wall behind him felt damp, his back and outstretched arms were wet from the condensation gathering on the rough stone. Droplets of moisture formed on the iron rings that held him firmly, painfully upright when the whip lashed across his shoulders, his chest, his thighs. He'd been here for barely two hours, and already he felt weak from the loss of blood.

A new man was part of the group today, a tall bloke, Caucasian with dark brown hair – Draco couldn't tell whether he was magical or Muggle. He wore the Azkaban uniform, military blue with a few stripes for a fantasy rank gleaming silver on his shoulder. He was wielding the whip harder than Draco was used to; apparently the others went easy on him. It was hard to keep his head up but Draco wanted to take it all in – the guards playing cards on the table far off at the iron door, the flickering lights on both sides of the narrow room, the men appearing from the shadows, with whip, cane, knife –

A loud crack, and another blow landed on his chest – smarting heat bloomed into deep, red-aching pain. His body reacted involuntarily, head snapping back against the wall, hands pulling at the rings with more force than he could have mustered if he'd intended to. And he screamed, screamed, loudly, unashamed. Merlin, it felt good to scream. Not like in Azkaban when his screams had been suffocated by the dirty rags in his mouth, when his body had been frozen by terror.

Belatedly, he felt the sting; blood was dripping down his chest and on the floor. One of the leather thongs had grazed his chin.

"Watch out for the face", came sharply from somewhere to Draco's left, too far off in the darkness for him to see with his neck fixated by the iron collar. The voice sounded level, young almost like a boy's. But with enough authority to make the new guard step away from Draco, bowing slightly in apology.

One of the other men took his place, a wiry Asian wizard. Draco felt his body react in expectancy of the pain only a knife could provide, sharp and brilliant like strong liquors or a certain kind of highly illegal potions. It was an effort to loosen his left hand that was clenched in a fist, trying to fight the pain. But he managed and pointed with two fingers.

"Stay," the young voice said from the darkness, and the new guy remained at Draco's side while the knife did its work on his pale skin, slicing red hieroglyphs, a calligraphy of pain and blood.

Draco's vision swam – the blood loss, he vaguely thought, too early, too much – and an indigo mist filled the room. The stones seemed to glitter with veins of gold, or opals or Muggle electric lights. Blood seeped from his skin in bursts, his body thrummed with every beat of his heart. He was achingly hard; his cock was leaking. So ready – he was so ready to be taken, all of him, heartbeat, blood, pleasure and pain. _Sacrifice the Queen so the King will stand_ , and check-mate…

At first, he hardly felt the touch. Like a warm wind it was, incredibly gentle and intimate. From the indigo mist the face of the new guard emerged. He was on his knees before Draco. The silver stripes on his uniform glittered. He licked away the blood that had dripped down to Draco's belly. His mouth laid a wet trail from Draco's navel to his groin that was shaven cleanly – pale, smooth, hairless skin untouched by whip and knife. He took Draco's cock in his mouth, held its head on his tongue, and waited.

His cock felt so heavy, so full – another move, another touch, and he'd spill. He sensed more than he saw the small slender figure stand beside him, watching. It made him feel safe like he knew it was supposed to make him feel. His chest and thighs burned where strips of skin had been taken off the flesh; a sickening ache twisted in his wrists as if he'd torn the ligaments in the struggle to get away from the knife. His mouth was clamped shut, not by his own will but…

A good man. _A good man._ He wanted this, deserved it, the pain and the pleasure, both. He tried to let go, tried hard. The scratch on his chin burned, his eyes burned. But he could not, could not…

From the corner of his eyes, Draco saw the small figure nod to the kneeling man. Warm fingers were placed on his hips, light as feathers, like a hand that moved the rook for the final move. _Check-mate._ The man held Draco's hips in place, very gently, careful not to leave bruises on his skin. Then he took in the whole of Draco's cock. He sucked slowly. Heat was flooding Draco, making him groan loudly. His knees gave out, and he would have slipped downward, kept upright only by the iron around his neck and wrists. But the man held him, held him firmly while he kept sucking him off.

Draco was falling on a chequered board of black and white. The lips of the man before him glistened like fresh blood, tight around his cock. The black King tilted precariously. The only thing that held him were the man's hands, steady, safe. So good. The King toppled, falling and falling… Draco's head fell back, spurts of lust ripped through him, and he was spilling, spilling, a cry torn from his lips, a name –

_Harry._

♜

As by Draco's orders, Sammy Ped Mai never healed his wrists. When Draco came around in a bed so soft and cool, it felt like his own skin been turned into silk, all the other wounds had already closed and were barely perceptible. There was a soreness to his chest and thighs, a dull ache in his wrists. Other than that Draco felt better than he had in ages. Better by a long stretch than after winning against Xie Jun a mere month ago, a victory that had catapulted him to the top of the Wizarding Elo ratings.

Sammy sat beside Draco on the bed. Sammy Ped Mai, _Purveyor_ , who owned Texes Bob's, an infamous nightclub in Patpong with extensive, expensive dungeons. He was stroking Draco's hair like a father would. Only Lucius Malfoy had never stroked Draco's hair, not even when he was a young boy.

Memories of his mother came flooding in. There was nothing Draco could do, and it hurt as if he had just heard about her death yesterday. He let himself cry, softly, because he was safe here and with a friend.

Sammy's school-boy uniform was dark blue, with a dark blue tie and dark blue knee socks. His dainty black shoes dangled over the edge of the bed. You could have taken him for a fourth year if not for the eyeliner and the blush on his cheeks that expertly camouflaged his age. Draco had met Sammy six years ago, during the Bangkok Chess Club, and – for an indecent amount of Galleons – Sammy kept providing the Azkaban scenario for him whenever Draco came to Bangkok.

"You need to go home, my boy." Sammy's voice was high and rich. He kept stroking Draco's hair.

"And where is that, Sammy? Home?"

"Don't be an idiot, _farang_." He pulled at Draco's hair just so it hurt but not much. He was right, of course. Sammy Ped Mai was always right.

A gorgeous petite girl in an emerald green dress guided Draco through the maze of corridors into the nightclub area and towards the public entrance of Texes Bob's.

Draco stepped out into the noise and bustle of Patpong 1. It was long after midnight but the air was still warm from the heat of the day before. The indigo sky made the neon signs shine all the brighter. With an unexpected pang, Draco found himself longing for the star-spangled night-sky over Wiltshire.

There was a Blue Line subway station nearby. He started walking towards it.

♜

Two months after his return to England, Draco Malfoy showed up on Harry's doorstep. Harry had sent half a dozen owls, inviting Malfoy to dinner, for a walk, a talk, anything, but they all had gone unanswered. He did not invite him for a game of chess because that would mean making assumptions, and Harry was prepared to not assume anything.

Malfoy seemed to have his own ideas about what to assume and what not. He brought his chess set with him, a foldable one, with the figures carved from black onyx and white marble. He carried it under his arm, the figures in a velvet bag, which he dangled before Harry's face when he opened the door.

It was all wrong. For one thing, it was a Sunday, not a Wednesday. Which in a way was a good thing because the Head Auror rarely could take his Wednesdays off, and Harry had been at the Ministry each and every Wednesday for the last eight years.

There was no vegetable soup waiting piping hot on the oven. Harry usually went to the Burrow on Sundays, for a home-cooked meal and to catch up with Molly, Arthur, and Percy who lived with his parents after his divorce. Molly was healthy and would outlive them all, and her cooking was infinitely better than anything Harry had ever managed. He hadn't made his own bread in forever. The house smelled of black coffee and of the floor wax Winky used for polishing the endless hardwood floors.

"I don't have any chocolate frogs," was the first thing that came out of Harry's mouth because Teddy had eaten all of them on his last visit.

Draco – _Malfoy_ , Harry reminded himself, for he didn't know this Draco, didn't know who he had become – smiled in a way reminiscent of the git Harry had known at school. "I've brought my own treats," he said, and all the familiarity was gone as the man stepped into the hallway of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy's treats turned out to be deep-fried, larva-like insects called Non Pai, a Thai delicacy, he explained. He pulled a small can of them out of his backpack. Then he placed his chess set on the same table where they had played chess all those many years ago. Or rather, not so many years ago. It made Harry's head hurt to think that in another reality he had played chess with Draco, another Draco, in this very room. Sunday mornings, he remembered, had been a time often reserved for chess.

Malfoy gave him an odd look and threw himself into the chair that had always been _Harry's_ chair. Harry perched on the edge of the sofa, secretly stroking the plush pale blue cloth. He had it newly upholstered after Draco had left England. The entire place had been redone in the months before Harry entered the Aurors, carefully trying to recall how Grimmauld Place had looked when _his_ Draco lived here.

If Malfoy noted the antique rosewood writing table or the intricately patterned carpet, he didn't show it. Instead he waved his can of bamboo worms. "Bowl?"

When Harry came back from the kitchen with a bowl, Malfoy was setting the chess pieces on the board. Harry watched him for a moment from the door – his features were still sharp, his lips thin and more pink than red. He still dressed elegantly, and Harry smiled at the highly polished brogues. Everything else, though, was different about him. His hair had darkened, and he kept it long, gathered in a queue that trailed down his back. Harry had seen pictures, of course, but it was different to see Malfoy before him in the flesh, wearing Muggle clothes – a green shirt and black jeans. The unfamiliar clothes made him look young, younger than twenty-eight, younger than Harry remembered his Draco at twenty-eight.

Malfoy set the final piece on the board, a rook shimmering a pearly white in the morning light. It was then that Harry noticed his wrists. The Dark Mark had faded to the colour of an old tattoo but there were more recent scars. Malfoy's wrists were red and raw, as if he'd been bound with coarse ropes and had struggled fiercely against their hold. Harry couldn't suppress a gasp, and Malfoy looked up. He dropped his hands into his lap and shrugged. Clearly he had seen Harry noticing the scars but didn't feel the need to explain.

Harry took a seat on the sofa again. Malfoy tipped the insects into the bowl. The chess board was set so that white was on Harry's side, black on Malfoy's.

"Side of light and all", Malfoy said and bit into a worm with a crunching sound. Harry decided to never touch those things; they looked disgusting, no matter that Malfoy chewed with obvious delight. A wide, satisfied grin softened the sharp lines of his face. It made Harry crave for chocolate frogs.

Harry made the first move with the Queen's pawn, using an opening Ron had taught him long ago when Ron had been alive and trying to drill some strategy into him. Malfoy laughed at Harry's opening, muttering about the chess playing skills of drunken crups. He had Harry checkmated in eleven moves.

They played the entire day, and Harry lost every single game. He hadn't expected anything else, but Malfoy was such a smug git about it that Harry just had to keep asking for a rematch. It did not do him any good. When evening fell, it had become a joke between them, and Harry brought out the Ogden's.

Much to Harry's surprise, Malfoy stayed for the night. _I am ready_ , he said before he slipped out of his clothes and into Harry's bed. _Are you?_ And oh yes, Harry was more than ready for sex with Malfoy.

They _fucked_ – Malfoy's words – but Harry thought of it as making love all the time he was holding Malfoy down, wearing his Auror robes at Malfoy's bright-eyed request.

Harry embarrassed himself and came early, spilling all over the black cloth of his Auror-issue pants not three minutes into the game. There was something strangely arousing about having Malfoy's bony, strong body beneath him, all that pale skin writhing against Harry. But he would have lasted longer if Malfoy had been any other man, one of the blond Muggles, perhaps, whom Harry picked up in the bars around Soho.

Harry came so quickly because this was Malfoy – _Draco_ – and no matter who he was today, Harry came for the too-thin boy with the haunted look, he came for the elegant, warm man who held him close after every nightmare, who kissed him with _good-bye-I love you_ on his lips, a kiss that Harry could still feel in his dreams. Malfoy did not kiss him and yet Harry came as if he were still fifteen and this his first time with a man – with _Draco_. Because no matter that this Malfoy was a chess Grandmaster who had acquired a taste for insects and a uniform kink, he still smelled of the same cologne, and when he touched Harry's swollen cock, it was with the same gentle strength Harry remembered and had ached for, for so, so long. The naked stranger beneath him was Draco even when Harry knew it was safer to call him Malfoy, at least for now.

Malfoy showed Harry how to twist his nipples in a way that had to be so painful Harry couldn't do it for the longest time. But in the dead of night, with a starless indigo darkness wrapped around them, he finally touched Malfoy like Malfoy begged him to. It was nothing like the sex with _his_ Draco had been. But Malfoy moaned, panted and babbled silly broken words, his body sweaty and hot and so aroused that Harry couldn't well not give him what he so obviously craved. Malfoy did not come that night. But Harry felt drops of precome when he squeezed Malfoy's hard cock in ways he himself would have considered torture, and not the sweet kind. He heard the need in Malfoy's voice, egging him on to go _harder, hurt me, Merlin, hurt me like you mean it…_

Harry thought that, with a bit of practice, he would be able to make Malfoy come.

♜

Early next morning, Harry woke to stripes of sunlight on his pillow. Draco Malfoy was watching him from the shadows. Perhaps Malfoy did not sleep much either, just like Harry's other Draco, the one who was thirty-eight now and, Harry hoped with all his heart, happy in another time and place.

Malfoy's gaze was soft, and the colour of his irises was that of a kaleidoscope that only on second glance registered as grey. Harry snuggled closer, and Malfoy let him, even put his arm around Harry's waist. He only slightly flinched when Harry's chest touched his nipples that looked still raw from last night.

"So", he whispered, "can this work between us, Potter, what do you think? We're not exactly sexually compatible."

Harry traced the scars that wrapped like red bands around Malfoy's wrists. Against his half-hard cock he felt the smoothness of Malfoy's shaven crotch. It was nothing like he ever imagined. And yet…

"You sold the Manor, didn't you?" he asked.

Malfoy nodded. His eyes were on Harry's fingers that had grabbed Malfoy's wrist with a will of their own. Harry squeezed harder, harder until the tiny bones shifted underneath the skin. Malfoy gasped, and Harry felt Malfoy's cock lengthen and harden against his belly.

"You could move in with me," he said, going for nonchalant and failing, but not wholly.

Malfoy grinned at him and started rocking his groin lightly back and forth.

"What?" Harry said, already panting hard. "The house is huge. There's more than enough room for the two of us." Merlin, this felt good. Malfoy felt so incredibly good, moving like this.

"We will need – " Malfoy started but Harry had him shoved onto his back in one fast move, arms pinned above his head. The bastard smirked at him and thrust his hips upwards the same moment when Harry ground down on him. Stars of golden sunlight exploded before Harry's eyes. He rubbed his chest hard against Malfoy's erect nipples which got him a strangled moan and a further thickening of Malfoy's cock.

Malfoy's voice was teasing, laced with pain, with need, but already, still, achingly familiar. "I'll say we need all the room we can get."  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe and characters, which both Writcraft's and this story are based upon, belong to JK Rowling and her associates. Sammy Ped Mai and Texes Bob's belong to William Maltese and his Stud Draqual-series. No money is made, no copyright infringement intended.


End file.
